


Other Hearts

by Ccroquette



Series: Other Hearts [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Finland and Sweden weren't always the picture of domestic bliss, History, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ccroquette/pseuds/Ccroquette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In blood and snow and a tenuous bond, they were not always so happy together...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The Beginning, Suomi**

He wakes.

He becomes aware of his existence in the winter, with the snow crusted thickly on the ground and the frigid wind blowing. The stars shine brightly overhead and he thinks that this is beautiful.

He walks, through the freezing snow - and new as he is, it does not hurt him, though he feels its cold - and as he walks he surveys his country. There are frozen lakes and towering forests and everywhere the glistening white, and he thinks that this is beautiful, too.

The seasons change as he wanders, and he encounters other beautiful things - the fens and the rivers and the sea. And then the people - the people! Perhaps the most beautiful of all, and he loves them.

And though he has a body he sees the people and he knows that he is not like they are, not completely, but they are him and he is them and they are both Suomi.

The years pass and as he lives, sometimes with the people, sometimes alone, he becomes aware that there are others like him, close by and far away, to the east and to the west and to the north. They are not part of Suomi.

Their people appear, sometimes, across his borders and they trade and they fight and he learns their names - Norja. Novgorod. Ruotsi. He never meets the nations.

It’s confusing sometimes, being Suomi, so he gives himself a name, too.

Tino.

 

 **1249, Tavastia**

There have been changes.

Ruotsi’s people have come again and this time they come not with goods, but with their swords and their religion. Tino is more concerned with the former than the latter. His people’s beliefs don’t bother him - but they are _his_ people.

A figure appears on the horizon. A nation. It is tall and blond and broad-shouldered and fierce, and he knows that this is Ruotsi.

He approaches, and though he’s not holding a weapon, there’s something to him that makes Tino uneasy. He can’t read that scowling face, and that’s something he doesn’t like at all.

He stands ready and waits. He means to tell Ruotsi that he can have his religion, and Tino does not care, because he has his chants and his gods and his knife.

His knife has driven away Novgorod and Norja and always kept him safe, but now, without a word, it’s knocked from his hand and before he can react the hulking giant has picked him up - _picked him up!_ \- and is carrying him away.

Tino is not a tall man, but he is strong. He kicks and punches and _bites_ for all he’s worth but it’s useless. He fights until he’s exhausted, and in the end he passes out.

When he wakes up he’s lying in a strange bed, in a strange house. He hasn't been harmed, but everything feels wrong and he knows that this is not his homeland.

Ruotsi is sitting by the fire, watching him. When he sees that Tino’s awake, he starts - for a second it looks like he might rise, might approach him, and then at the last second he changes his mind. He speaks to Tino, instead, in a language Tino doesn’t understand. Tino curses, once, and then fixes him with a glare.

Undeterred, he holds out a bowl. Dinner.

Tino doesn’t take it. He wants to go home.

Ruotsi keeps his hand outstretched, and finally Tino can no longer bear that gaze. He leaves the bed, and curls up on the floor, in a corner. He should fight him, he knows, should run far and long and swiftly, but he has no strength left.

With his face hidden behind his knees he starts to sing, softly, to himself. Tries to sing himself out of here, to sing himself away, back to his homeland.

He doesn’t have Väinämöinen’s magic. He remains where he is, alone.

He forces the words out of a tightening throat anyway, because as long as he keeps singing he won’t have to hear himself cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**1250**

Ruotsi has a name. Berwald.

Tino has learned this because he has learned Berwald’s language. Berwald has tried to learn his, tried very earnestly, in fact, but he mumbles terribly and has trouble wrapping his head around the grammar. It is easier for Tino to speak Swedish.

Berwald looks pleased with him whenever he speaks it. Tino doesn’t speak very often; he doesn’t want to encourage him.

In the past year they have entered an uneasy truce.

He has to admit that Berwald does not treat him badly. He does not hurt him, and there is food to eat and a warm shelter in which to live. Berwald has even made a second bed for him, an act of consideration he never would have expected from a jailer.

But he cannot go home.

Now that he can speak with Berwald, he’s asked for this. Whenever he brings it up Berwald says nothing, and the expression on his face looks almost..sad.

He does not understand why he is here.

He longs for his homeland. His people. They are small and they are disparate and they are scattered, but they have finally started, perhaps, to see themselves together. His nation.

He longs for his kantele. He sings to himself, sometimes, but it cannot be the same. There is no power behind it and the words fall flat and useless.

Above all else, he longs for his knife.

\----

As the months pass he becomes accustomed to this life, and minds it less. He has contemplated trying to run but Berwald is nearly always with him and surely he would only drag him back.  
Sometimes he and Berwald have conversations that are almost friendly, if a few grunts and a mumbled word count as conversation.

Tino works diligently, for all that he’s a prisoner. He is good at fishing, and he does the cooking because Berwald is hopeless in a way that Tino would find amusing, normally. He sometimes catches himself smiling, now, and has to remind himself why he ought not to.

He does not like to hunt, because it makes him miss his knife.   
Winter comes again and then it passes, and it is nearly gone one day when Tino goes to gather wood. The fastest way to do this is to cross the frozen river outside of Berwald’s home. The ice looks strong, and it has held him for months without so much as a groan of complaint. He makes to cross.

The ice breaks.

The cold stabs him, a thousand icy knives, and the shock of it makes him gasp, trading his breath for icy water. His heart races and he struggles to breathe - but it’s not too deep, and he surfaces quickly, coughing freezing water out of burning lungs. The river is not deep, but it is cold, and he knows that he has to get himself out of it soon or he will die.

It never occurs to him to scream for help.

He tries to swim and finds that his arms and legs have turned to lead. He thrashes, clumsily, and somehow manages to flop back onto the ice and haul himself back to solid ground. He drags himself to the house on trembling legs, amazed that his teeth haven’t shattered yet from how hard they’re chattering, and when he stumbles over the threshold Berwald catches him before he can fall.

Berwald says nothing - and from the way Tino looks, it should be obvious what has happened to him - but he still feels compelled to explain, “I fell through the ice.”

Berwald frowns, and herds him over to the fire without a word, and begins to strip off his sodden clothing. He wraps him in blankets, and hands him a bowl of the soup that has been simmering over the fire, and when Tino’s warm again he finds him dry clothing. He does all of this without a word, his face still locked in that strange severe scowl, and somehow Tino feels as though he ought to apologize, though he has no idea for what.

“I’m sorry,” he ventures.

There is a peculiar look on Berwald’s face and he wonders if this is concern.

It is more than concern. Berwald leans in and tries to kiss him. Tino ducks out of his arms, shoves him away.

He tries not to be bothered at the hurt in Berwald’s eyes.

They sit in uncomfortable silence for hours, not looking at one another, until finally Tino cannot bear it any longer.

“Why did you take me?” he cries out.

Berwald is silent, and Tino supposes that this is yet another question that Berwald will not answer, until, at last,

“Yer small,” he says. “An’ th’ neighbors aren’t. Jus’… wanted t’ keep y’safe.” He hangs his head, when he’s done speaking, and at the look of utter dejection on his face Tino tries not to feel anything.

It works so long as he doesn’t think about it.

He’s still trying to think of something to say to that when Berwald rises. There is a chest, in the corner, and he goes to this now and retrieves something. He returns to Tino, still avoiding his gaze, and holds the object out to him.

It is his knife.

A year ago Tino would have stabbed him. Now, he takes it and runs.


	3. Chapter 3

Ruotsi - Berwald - has let him be. Unfortunately other nations have not followed suit.

Novgorod has increased his attacks, and Tino has fought him off, until now. It is true that this land is not entirely his - but it’s not entirely Novgorod’s, either, and Tino’s determined to keep it that way.

It may be an impossible goal.

His attacks have been relentless, and though Tino has resisted, the fact remains that he is small, and Novgorod is very large, with many more resources at his disposal. Tino still bears the wounds from their last fight, - a devastation, though he does not like to admit that - and now when he meets him on the field of battle he is already limping, already weakened.

Tino still fights fiercely, for being injured, and Novgorod is dazed and he is stumbling and he is bleeding from a dozen knife-wounds, but he is not _finished_ and that is the only thing that matters. Tino lunges for an opening but with cracked ribs he is too slow to dodge when Novgorod counters. He is knocked back to the ground and he closes his eyes and breathes a prayer to any god that’s listening because he realizes that this must be the end.

There is a roar above him.

He opens his eyes again to see Berwald, sword in hand, and Berwald shouts again, primal and raw and raging, and this is a side of him that Tino has never seen. He does not kill Novgorod but he drives him back and that it what matters most, right now. Novgorod runs, and Berwald lets him go with one final terrifying shout - a wordless, guttural yell, so incongruous that Tino forgets to be concerned and instead just _stares_.

When it is finished Berwald falls silent again. He looks down at Tino, and Tino looks up at him, breath ragged and blood oozing out to stain the grass, and wonders if he should thank him or raise his knife.

He is still trying to decide this when he passes out.

\----

He wakes up not in Berwald’s home, as he’d half-expected, half-feared, but in his own bed, and is relieved. He tries to sit up, and the pain halts him for a moment before he forces himself to do so anyway. There is a disapproving grunt from the fireplace.

Berwald is there, scowling over at him, and as Tino sits and stares at him - too weary to make good sense of anything right now - he sits and stares right back, unmoving. Finally Tino tries to get out of bed, and _that_ elicits a reaction. Berwald jumps to his feet, and grabs Tino’s shoulders before he has a chance to stand.

Tino struggles to free himself and fails, because he’s still injured and it feels like the bandages around his ribs have been re-bound and it hurts like a dagger when he moves.

Berwald’s face falls. He lets go, abruptly, and takes a step back, but the scowl doesn’t lessen. Tino would speak, but he finds it enough of a challenge to breathe.

“Y’should stay in bed.” Berwald’s voice is low, tense.

Tino stops trying to get up, but doesn’t lie back down. He surveys his limbs instead and notes that all of his wounds have been bandaged, his right arm bound in a sling, and he looks over to see that there is food cooking on the fire.

Berwald does not belong here, and Tino should tell him to go away - should force him out, _somehow_ \- but he is injured and he can see that Berwald has been kind. He forces himself to take a slow, shallow breath. “Thank you.”

A grunt is Berwald’s only reply, and Tino regards him warily. Berwald _has_ been kind - has saved his life. Tino wonders, now, what the price will be.

Berwald looks annoyed. His hand twitches, as though he’s about to reach out, but he stops himself. “Y’should lie down.”

Tino doesn’t move. Berwald’s scowl deepens.

“Not gonna hurt yeh.”

That’s not what he’s concerned about.

“Not gonna take yeh.” Berwald looks away from him then, and Tino follows his gaze all the way to the bedside, where Tino’s knife and Berwald’s sword both sit, far closer to Tino’s reach than Berwald’s.

Tino lies down.

Berwald seems satisfied, and returns to the hearth. “Dinner’s not done yet.”

Tino says nothing, but watches him, still trying to make _sense_ , and in a sudden moment of clarity Tino reaches over with his good arm and picks up his knife. He doesn’t unsheathe it, doesn’t do anything but hold it in his hand, but it is a comfort to him. Security.

If Berwald notices he doesn’t react, simply stirring the pot over the fire.

Some time later Berwald rises and dishes up a bowl of soup, which he brings over Tino. “Dinner.”

In order to eat he’ll have to let go of his knife. Tino shakes his head.

In answer, Berwald shakes the bowl at him, frowning. “Dinner,” he repeats.

Tino’s grip on the knife tightens, his knuckles going white.

This does not escape Berwald’s notice. His brow furrows, and with a sigh he pulls a chair over to Tino’s bedside and sits, staring down at the bowl in his hands. He stays that way for several minutes, and finally, gaze still downcast, he says, “Was wrong, b’fore.”

Tino says nothing, waiting for him to elaborate and at the same time eyeing the sword, and wondering if Berwald will go for it. He does not.

“Wanted t’ protect yeh, but didn’t do’t right.”

He continues avoiding Tino’s eyes, and after some moments he starts to turn the bowl around in his hands, turning and turning as he stares at it. At long last the words trip from a hesitant mouth:

“Don’t understand so well. ‘M used t’ jus’...taking.”

As though that settles it, he stops his fidgeting and brings the bowl up to Tino’s mouth. Tino swallows, and barely hears the words that Berwald mumbles, scarcely louder than a breath.

“ ‘M sorry.”


	4. Chapter 4

True to his word, Berwald does not hurt him, does not take him. When dinner is finished he sees to the house and brings more wood in from outside, only looking at Tino when he doesn’t think that Tino is looking at him, and then beds down on the floor in front of the hearth. 

He falls asleep long before Tino does and it’s only after he’s been out for quite some time that Tino can bring himself to go to sleep. He doesn’t let go of the knife. 

He wakes, dripping cold sweat, at some impossible hour of the morning, breathing raggedly and trembling in the dark. His heart beats too fast, and his head pounds with it, keeping time with his aching ribs. Berwald is still asleep.

Tino stares up at the roof as the room drifts in and out of focus and the sunlight gradually bleeds color back into the shadowy greyness of the house. He tries to collect himself and muster the strength to get up, but he hasn’t yet managed it by the time that Berwald finally stirs. As Tino watches, he stretches, yawns, and gets up to stoke the fire. Only then does he notice that Tino’s awake. 

He says nothing, but he doesn’t need to - his brow furrows and Tino realizes what a picture he must make. He tries to sit up and finds that he can’t. His arm’s too weak. 

Berwald steps toward him. 

Tino’s heart seizes and he clutches at the knife for reassurance, and in his dazed state he doesn’t notice how Berwald’s face falls. “Bandages,” Berwald mumbles, looking down at the floor. 

He has a point. With one working arm Tino can’t see to them himself. Even with two arms, he wouldn’t be able to, like this. 

Tino lets go of the knife. 

Berwald steps closer. “Y’need to sit up.”

Tino shakes his head, and tries not to grimace as it makes him dizzier. “Can’t.”

He closes his eyes to block out the wavering ceiling and feels Berwald gingerly take hold of his shoulders and pull him up. He tenses, but before he can do anything more, Berwald lets go. Tino lets Berwald unfasten his shirt, and tries to help him remove it - but moving makes a new sheen of sweat break out on his skin, and he can’t concentrate enough to be of any use. Berwald only scowls, and starts to work.

He unbinds the bandages around Tino’s ribs, and the scowl deepens. He leans in quite close, and reaches toward him - and Tino almost grabs for the knife again - but he only does so to probe a wound. Tino can’t suppress the resulting wince.

Berwald grunts disapprovingly and pokes it again. 

“What?” Tino gasps, sweat beading on his forehead. 

“Don’ like the look of it.” Berwald frowns. “How long?”

“A while.” He’s always hurting, recently. There’s always some new attack, some new attempt to take him over. He hasn’t felt well for quite some time. He tries to see the wound and inspect the damage for himself, but he can’t twist far enough to do so - and as soon as he tries, a spike of pain lances across his ribcage. He hisses, and very carefully ignores the look of concern on Berwald’s face.

“Think it’s gone bad.”

It probably has, he realizes with dismay. The last thing he needs now is more weakness. Weakness leads to takeover. He bites his tongue, and tries to think. Left alone he’ll die or be conquered, but if he asks Berwald for help… he can’t know what will happen.

As Berwald cleans the wound and re-binds it, Tino agonizes what to do, a process made none the easier by the fact that his head feels like it’s been completely emptied. “Y’need to rest,” Berwald says, and then makes Tino’s decision for him. “”’ll look after things.”

Tino’s too dazed to do more than nod dumbly as Berwald looks over the other wounds, though dimly it occurs to him that perhaps he should be concerned. By the time Berwald’s done Tino is shaking terribly, and can’t tell if it’s too cold or too hot inside the house. Berwald makes to put his shirt back on, but Tino shakes his head. 

“Don’t. Too hot.”

Berwald doesn’t say anything, though his brow furrows, and as he helps Tino to lie back down, Tino feels too sick to be worried, too weary to question his motivation. Berwald pulls the blankets over him and leaves the house, and Tino closes his eyes against the world as the fever begins to take hold.

At first he shakes with sudden cold, but then he heats up, and pushes the blankets off, as everything is replaced by a sort of floaty haze. He lies, spread out and pressed against the mattress, but he may as well be flying. 

He spends minutes, hours - he doesn’t know, everything’s all stretched together - staring at the ceiling, where every single detail stands out too sharply and makes him feel almost sick, but only almost. It doesn’t matter, he realizes, what he does. He is small and his neighbors are big and there will always be fighting. Always. He’ll spend his existence caught between a raging giant and this, Ruotsi, _Berwald_ who is too strong and too silent and whom he does not understand...

His thoughts are interrupted when Berwald returns, too loud in the stuffy house, carrying firewood and water. He’s a strange sight here; he’s not right in this place, not really, and Tino should get up and fight for himself. He tries, but he’s only got one good arm and that quickly gives way.

If only he had two. 

He has no chance to fight anything as he is now, but there are ways, old ways, and words he used to know. He licks cracked lips, and in a raspy, feeble voice he starts to sing. 

Nothing happens, no magic, no miracles, but his voice is weak and perhaps he needs to try harder. As he catches his breath and readies himself to try again, Berwald frowns and steps over to him, blocking out his vision until he’s all Tino can see, towering up into the roof.

“What’re y’ doin’?” His voice is too big, like the rest of him, eating up the space in the little house. Too little space. Too much noise. 

Someday it won’t matter, and Tino will be strong, and no one will take his space. The thought makes him grin. “Fixing my arm.”

Berwald looks away and mutters something that sounds awfully similar to ‘heretic.’ Tino stares up at him, eyes wide and glassy, and in the over-brightness of a fevered mind he sees that one corner of Berwald’s mouth has quirked itself just slightly out of its usual stern line. He is _joking_ , Tino realizes with a jolt, teasing him in his own peculiar way.

It’s not funny in the slightest, not at all, but before he can stop it a laugh wheezes its way out of Tino’s chest and then suddenly he can’t stop laughing. 

Berwald scowls, any trace of a smile swiftly gone, as he reaches out a huge hand to feel Tino’s forehead. “Yer delirious.”

Probably. It doesn’t matter. Berwald was _joking_. Tino hadn’t thought he could, but he’s _seen it_ \- and in his feverish mind, this idea is nothing short of _brilliant_. He keeps laughing until the pain slices through his ribs and then he chokes, and stops, and lies there panting, half a ridiculous grin still splashed across his face.

He has seen Berwald joking - how often has he done that, Tino wonders, without Tino knowing? How many times has he done something else, too - how many times has a scowl meant something secret that he didn’t know to look for?

Ah, but he knows _now_.

He might be out of his head with fever, but he doesn’t lack for determination. Armed with this new knowledge, Tino resolves to watch.


	5. Chapter 5

For a long while there’s not much to see. He focuses all his effort on watching Berwald, or at least as much as he can, with his mind running hazy circles and his heart pounding out of rhythm, but there are no more hidden messages for the time being. 

The pain in his side doesn’t help. It worsens steadily, and after some time it’s all he can think about, hidden messages be damned. It’s _fire_ driven between his ribs, and with it he can’t even think, can’t do anything but lie there and be at someone else’s mercy, even if that someone has promised not to harm him. He needs to end it, somehow, but he doesn’t have the strength. 

If only he weren’t hurting, he would be strong.

He doesn’t have the strength, but he does have his knife. His knife has always helped him, protected him and kept him safe from countless enemies, and it will help him again now. After some struggle he manages to draw it one-handed, and he makes it all the way through the bandages and is about to start on skin when Berwald notices. 

The kettle is loud when it crashes to the floor. 

Before he realizes what’s happened Berwald has grabbed his wrist, twisting the knife-point away. And he’s _talking_ , noisier than Tino’s ever heard him, words pouring out in a torrent of muddled Swedish that Tino’s too fever-dazed to make sense of, except for the curses. He laughs at those, even as Berwald’s grip on his wrist tightens painfully. 

Berwald isn’t laughing. He bites his lip, and then, haltingly, “Sä et-” 

He breaks off, and tries again. “Älä -” 

He looks frustrated, and it’s only when his eyes leave Tino’s face and fixate on the knife that Tino fully understands what he’s getting at.

“I have to fix it,” he explains, fever and weakness slurring his words so much that even if Berwald had a perfect grasp of Finnish he wouldn’t understand. “I’m not strong enough. I have to kill the pain, don’t you see?” 

Berwald stares down at him, uncomprehending, and as Tino grins up at him he shakes his head. He mutters something, and once it’s clear that he’s not going to let go of Tino’s wrist Tino stops grinning, and tries unsuccessfully to twist away. 

“ _Let me go!_ ” he growls, desperate, but Berwald’s grip is sure. Berwald stares down at him, and when Tino doesn’t stop fighting him he frowns. Finally he reaches over for a scrap of bandage and uses it to bind Tino’s hand to the bedpost.

Berwald binds his hand, and lets him keep the knife.

The bandages, sliced open and undone, have fallen away from him, and now that his hand is secure Berwald begins again to dress his wounds. Tino struggles, and fights, and curses him in Finnish and in other, older tongues, and pretends not to see the sadness hidden behind the scowl on Berwald’s face. Berwald works, stoic as ever, and murmurs things to him in Swedish that Tino doesn’t try to understand. 

When he’s finished working, he tries to feed him, but Tino turns his face away and spits words that would be spiteful if they were clear. Berwald doesn’t force the issue, and retreats to a far corner of the house, and doesn’t approach him again.

Tino finally falls into a restless sleep, and wakes once more in the middle of the night, fever broken. Alone and suddenly clearheaded in the dark he looks over at his left hand and wonders. There are bigger problems than the here and now. He is small and his neighbors are large, and he stands no chance alone. He will have to choose, someday.

And one of them has tried to kill him, and one of them has let him keep his knife. 

When morning comes, and Berwald wakes up to find him lucid he unties his hand. Tino lets the knife go, and Berwald stares at it, and Tino has enough sense to realize that he’s doing that because he can’t meet his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Tino says, and thinks that he oughtn’t to have cursed him, if curses even work on someone who doesn’t share the same gods. If his curses even work anymore. 

He shouldn’t have cursed him, and he should try to be friendly, now, and Tino finds that it’s easier to do that because once he’s seen what’s hidden it’s easier not to hate him. It’s frightening, and he cannot know the future and he knows that even if he picks a side he risks hastening his demise, and being swallowed up. He has to make a choice and his future rests with this one, now, and it might be frightening but at least it’s not hateful. 

There is no hate. 

In his situation he thinks that’s the best that can be hoped. He still can’t bring himself to smile. “Thank you.”

Maybe someday he will learn to get along.

Berwald accepts this with a wordless nod, and Tino almost spies the beginnings of a smile. “Y’should eat.”

He acquiesces this time, and takes the bowl, but isn’t able to stop himself from asking, “Why do you protect me?”

Berwald takes too long to answer. “Don’ want Novgorod on my doorstep.”

There is something else there, though, something else hidden in those words, in that gaze. Tino does not press to find out what it is. 

He does not know if he can bear the answer.


	6. Chapter 6

As the injuries heal, as the gashes close and his bones knit back together, Tino spends a lot of time thinking about certain things, and rather more time trying not to think about others. He has long since made up his mind, but as he recovers he is spared from having to face the decision, as Berwald doesn’t broach the subject.

Berwald stays with him, taking care of firewood and food and trying to be unobtrusive, something which fails to be effective as this house was never meant for two. Always he has one eye turned to the horizon, one hand ready to grab a sword, but Novgorod leaves them for the time being, and for this Tino is thankful. 

He has other worries. 

It is one thing to choose a side in his head, and an altogether different thing to put voice to it. What will happen if he does, he wonders - he is small, and his people are scattered, and if he chooses a side will he continue to exist, or will he disappear, vanish away like mist in the sunlight? Will it be over quickly? Will he linger?

He does not know how nations die. 

Tino doesn’t bring it up, doesn’t talk about the conclusion that he’s reached, about what is inevitable. He doesn’t dare to, even now. The prospect is too frightening.

\----

It is a cold night in early spring, and he and Berwald sit facing the fire, as far away from each other as possible. Tino - recovered, now, healed enough to look after himself inasmuch as he’s ever been able to - sits with his knife laid across his lap, turning his thoughts round and over in his head and trying to figure out how to give in without giving up. How to survive without surrendering. He is small, and his neighbors are large, and as he looks across at Berwald who doesn’t quite fit his furniture he has never been quite so painfully aware of this fact as he is now. 

Berwald surprises him by speaking first. His voice is low, and colored thickly with unease. “Need t’ talk.”

Tino watches as sparks dance and die in the darkness and wonders if he’ll be like them.

“My land… ’s different from yours.”

Berwald’s elbows rest on his knees, and he fidgets with his fingers, alternately lacing them together and stretching them out to the fire. His hands and face are the only parts of him not covered in thick wool, in heavy fur, and for half a second he looks smaller, warming himself against the chill. “Have a king.”

Tino doesn’t. His people are disparate, small groups banded together under their own chiefs and nothing greater, and he feels a shiver of pride when he realizes that it is nothing short of a miracle that they somehow see themselves as his. It makes him all the more determined not to lose them, and his jaw clenches. 

“King… wants things.”

Berwald spares the briefest glance at Tino, who stares back without a word. It’s no surprise. 

“Wants this land.”

Of course he does. That’s all anyone does. Norja, Novgorod, and Ruotsi - they want, and they appear, and they try to take him. Take this. Make it theirs and stamp him out of existence before he even has a chance to be. Tino hasn’t let them, doesn’t plan to let them, but he’s not stupid. He flexes a still-sore arm, and hides a wince. 

He is small, and he knows that it’s a matter of time. 

“Join up wi’ me.” Berwald looks up again, earnest and intense, and for half a fleeting moment the fireglow illuminates the stark blue-green of his eyes. Tino shivers again, and imagines he sees something honest there. “Y’d be part of the kingdom, but yer own land.”

Does Berwald have the power to promise such things, he wonders? 

Berwald looks away. “Not gonna force…y’can say no. If y’say no, I‘ll fight him.”

Finally, Tino speaks. “Would that work?”

“Dunno. Never tried.” He stirs up the fire, and offers, “Have an army, too. Borders’d be safer.” 

Tino doesn’t have the heart to tell him that an army can be used just as well inside his borders as outside. There’s no point in begrudging it, when he has to make the choice. 

It is a choice between an uncertain future and a certain death by the sword, and Tino’s pride does not outweigh his sense of preservation. He frowns at the fire, though, fingers worrying the hilt of his knife. Is he willing to put his life in Berwald’s hands?

No.

But he has done so unwillingly before, and he’s still standing. Still here. Still Suomi. He cannot fight off Novgorod forever by himself, and if Berwald tries to take him he cannot hope to win. And if he chooses to fight, his people will take the brunt of it, and then he might as well be dead. He has to take the risk. 

Slowly, he nods. 

Berwald nods in answer, and by the glow of an early-spring fire they clasp hands, and forge an agreement. 

Tino hopes he hasn’t chosen death.

——

Berwald departs not long after, to tell his king the news. Nations travel swiftly, not bound by human rules, and Tino knows by morning it will all be said and done. He’ll live, or disappear. 

He looks at the suddenly-barren house, and doesn’t want to stay there. He binds his knife to his belt, and takes his kantele, and banks the fire, and shuts the door. With his pathway lit by moonlight, he leaves, and heads out under snow-spark stars to see how it all ends. 

He’ll die as he was born.

When dawn finally comes and the first rays of light reach over the horizon, and the sun shines again on trees and lakes and fens, he holds a hand out in the sunlight, closes it into a fist. Still solid. Still real. _Still here_.

He breathes deep lungfuls of the chilly air as the dawn breaks over him and sets the sky ablaze with iridescent clouds, and looks, now, to the future. 

Whatever it may be.


End file.
